Nice? He drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Nice boys don’t get the girls. Nice is the kiss of death. He was damned if he agreed, and a liar if he didn’t. Running his fingers through his hair, he pondered his dilemma. He couldn’t lie to her. ‘I was hoping.’
She nodded and climbed two steps before she stopped. Looking over her shoulder she asked, ‘Are you going to see me to the front door?’
‘Um, sure.’ He shut the car door and jumped onto the step beside her. Of its own volition, his free hand reached for the small of her back, the touch light and impersonal. He felt light all of a sudden, light of heart, light of spirit. Not because he thought Serena would kiss him. But because she might. At the front door, she stepped in front of him.
‘In answer to your question—’
His gaze was riveted on her lips. What was the question?
‘You didn’t desert me when Max appeared on the scene.’ She raised her left hand and folded down her little finger. ‘You bought dinner and offered to feed my chocolate addiction with mud cake for dessert.’ Finger number two joined the first. ‘You made me laugh when I needed it. I’d almost allow two fingers for that, but I don’t want to make this too easy for you, so that’s number three.’
Too easy? Hope dared to raise its head, but he stood very still. ‘Does it count that I drove you home?’
‘No, because I’ve also chauffeured you. But there is a number four, and it’s a biggie. I really appreciate your honesty.’
‘You do know I’d have done any and all of the above without your tantalising offer?’
He prayed she wasn’t about to offer a thanks for being nice kiss. He didn’t want that type of kiss from Serena. What he wanted was a kiss that showed she knew he wasn’t Max. He wanted her trust. Because, judging by Max’s attitude and her reaction to the ex-fiancé, Paul had a feeling trust was in short supply.
‘I know, and that free offer of help earns you number five. On that basis, I think I can safely say you’ve been good.’
‘Only good? Not very good?’
‘I’ll let you know afterwards if you qualify for very good.’ Sliding her arms around his neck, she angled her head and drew his down.
The kiss was butterfly-soft, a barely there exhalation of breath on his mouth. He closed his eyes and rested his hands on her hips, anchoring his boots on the wooden floor and allowing her to set the pace.
She touched her tongue to his lower lip, tracing the outline so slowly he thought he’d go mad with wanting. Delicate and tentative and incredibly sensual, her soft kiss slammed through him with the force of a tidal wave.
‘God, Serena.’ Sliding his arms around her waist, he pulled her close and buried his nose in her hair. Tension filled him and he dragged in a ragged breath as though he’d run a hilly half marathon. Letting her set the pace was killing him. As his breathing eased back to somewhere approximating normal, he realised how close he was holding her. His erection throbbed between them.
‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’ Her voice was husky. She moved her hips slowly from side to side and looked at him. ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘You let me kiss you. Now it’s your turn to kiss me.’
‘If I start, I don’t know that I can stop. Your kiss blew my mind.’ She had no idea how close to the edge he was. He thought about wrapping her legs around his hips and lifting her against the wall, but they were standing on Trish Jenkins’s verandah where anybody could see them. The only thing missing was a spotlight.
‘But that doesn’t seem fair. How can I tell if you’re good or very good if you don’t kiss me back?’
‘Never let it be said I don’t rise to a challenge.’
‘Oh, I know that you do.’ She pressed gently against his groin. ‘Rise, that is.’
With a groan, he claimed her lips in a kiss that was neither soft nor delicate. His tongue dipped into her mouth, tasting hints of chocolate and red wine, and his last coherent thought was a promise that one day, he’d taste all of her.
Then the verandah light flicked on.
They sprang apart as Trish opened the door. ‘I thought I heard someone out here.’
Chapter Eight
Serena pulled up beside Paul’s outside shower block, a shiver of anticipation racing through her. Allowing herself to be seduced by Paul wasn’t sensible on any level. As a distraction from her search for her father, Paul was off the scale. Even when she’d kidded herself she was in love with Max, he’d never caused such breathless, weak-kneed excitement as Paul’s kisses evoked. She hadn’t intended kissing him. That stupid comment in the pub had been as much denial that Max could still affect her as it had been about wanting to discover why she was attracted to Paul.
So she’d kissed him on Trish’s front verandah.
The memory of his hard body pressed against hers had ensured very pleasant dreams. Paul wasn’t anywhere close to the type of man Max was. He made her laugh. He made her think he could be trusted and she needed to learn to trust again. Maybe testing the waters again today wasn’t a bad idea. If she slid her arms around his neck and suggested finishing what they’d started, would that hurt anyone? The grey light of a cloudy day, with a hint of rain in the air, would be perfect to keep them indoors.
But it wouldn’t bring her any closer to finding her father. No matter how enticing Paul was, her primary goal was to find the man who had contributed to her creation.
I can’t let myself be distracted.
When she looked into a mirror, she wanted to see her father as well as her mother looking back at her. She wanted to fill in the other half of her family tree.
The workshop door opened and Paul walked out, wiping his hands on a towel. Faded denims hugged lean hips and thighs, and a long sleeved t-shirt accentuated his broad shoulders. He smiled and raised a hand in greeting. ‘Serena, are you coming in or do you want to sit out here and admire my backyard all morning?’
Her heart started beating a crazy quickstep rhythm and heat pooled low in her belly.
Lust. It’s nothing more than lust.
Drawing a deep breath, she pushed her car door open and stepped out. ‘It could become a thing of beauty. Like your pub, both have—potential.’
‘Ouch.’ He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Can’t say I disagree. I’ve been so focused on building my business, I’ve neglected certain aspects of being a property owner.’
She opened the back door of the car and grabbed her portfolio, fiddling with the ribbon before turning to face him. ‘I want to run something past you, if you have time?’
His gaze dropped to her portfolio and his smile dimmed. ‘Sure. Come inside.’ He turned and entered the workshop. Hugging the portfolio to her chest, she raised her eyes to the grey sky. What had brought that swift change from pleased-to-see-her to closed-off?
Forget it. Remember it’s more important to find my father. For Mum.
And for herself. The spectre of losing her mother had faded when it became clear chemo had done its job, but for how long? The big C could still return. Pressing her lips together, Serena walked slowly into Paul’s workshop. As she pushed the door closed and placed her portfolio on the workbench, he was standing at the sink filling the electric kettle.
‘Do you want coffee?’ Gruff-voiced and straight-backed, he was still damned appealing.
Heavens, she had it bad. Curling her toes inside her boots, she gripped the edge of the bench. ‘Yes, please.’
He switched on the kettle. Hooking two mugs from the shelf, he set them on the drainer with a thud that made her wince. Unlikely as it seemed from his welcome, maybe he was annoyed she had arrived unannounced. Or had his enthusiasm last night only been for the prospect of kissing her and whatever else she might have offered last night? Like a bucket of cold water, the possibility Paul was more like Max than she’d thought made it easy to focus on her goal.
Once upon a time, she’d believed Max had liked her for herself too. Until his self-centredness forced he
r out the door. Now Paul was doing the same. Unless she could give them something they wanted, she wasn’t good enough. For Max … and now, it seemed, for Paul.
‘I’m sorry. I thought you’d be working on the panels. Have I disturbed you?’ Her words were clipped as confusion changed to anger. If Paul wanted nothing more than a business relationship, that’s what she’d give him.
Looking around the workshop, she realised something was missing. His tools were all neatly in their slots and the workbench was clear, except for the covered work in progress. This late in the morning he should have been in the middle of work but the only half-finished task appeared to be the washing up.
‘You’re not disturbing me. I’m off to see Penny Fordham in a few minutes.’
She put her portfolio on the bench and rested her hand on the cover. ‘Who’s she?’
‘My solicitor.’ Water sloshed onto the floor as he pulled the plug and shook his hands. He reached for a handtowel, and turned to face her. Laughter had vanished from his face. ‘I need advice on what I can do to recover what Carter owes me.’
No wonder he wasn’t working. The four-panel piece represented a big investment of time and money, and she’d just reminded him of what he’d lost. Probably lost. She’d allowed her pleasure at seeing him to make her forget Paul was in the midst of a crisis; she’d reminded him of work and then wondered why he shut her out. Her throat closed around a lump of regret threatening to steal her voice. ‘You have a lot on your plate already. I should leave you to it.’
‘Why did you bring your portfolio? The cotton festival isn’t going to happen if the mill doesn’t reopen soon.’ The kettle whistled and switched itself off. Paul hung the towel over a plastic rod, straightening it with as much care as Serena gave to draping garments for display. He poured water into the mugs, and vigorously stirred the contents. The spoon clattered onto the draining board before he turned, a mug of steaming coffee in each hand. He set a mug on the bench in front of her and sipped from his.
She glanced at her portfolio and a glimmer of understanding shot through her. ‘Is that what you thought I was here for, to talk about my designs?’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No. Of course not.’
He leaned against the sink, his eyes narrowing as he observed her. ‘You didn’t have to bring that thing as a pretext to talk to me. Did I overstep a boundary last night?’
‘No. In case you didn’t notice, I was there too. No boundaries crossed that weren’t welcome. Look, I’m sorry if I seem to keep lobbing up on your doorstep like a bad penny. We barely know one another and here I am again, to ask for your help. I wasn’t going to, but—’
Paul’s honesty last night—and those kisses—had made up her mind. Despite a strong desire to share more with him, from now on, her time here had to be about finding her father.
‘Then ask. What has you so anxious about how things look?’
‘Do you mind if I sit?’
Wordlessly, he set a stool at the end of the workbench and retreated to his spot in front of the sink, maintaining both physical and emotional distance.
Twisting the oversized costume ring around her middle finger, Serena cringed at her poor management of the situation so far. She wouldn’t blame him for thinking she was a tad unhinged today. Picking up the mug, she blew across the top of the coffee and took a nervous sip before clearing her throat and setting the mug on the bench. Paul’s hand rested on the drainer as he sipped his coffee and watched her over the rim of the mug. She’d hurt him inadvertently when he’d offered kindness and shielded her from Max.
Before she left Sydney, the problem of not having a name for her father had seemed insurmountable. Until one night when she’d found herself sketching faces, combinations of the differences between herself and her mother, but in masculine form. Pinning her hopes on random sketches would seem crazy, but it was all she had. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and flicked a glance at Paul. One eyebrow rose in query, but he remained silent. Looking down at her hands, she stroked the thin white scar running the length of her right thumb, an early stanley-knife injury during pattern-cutting class at design school. Was her father a southpaw, like her?
‘As I said last night, discussing ideas with you online would have been much easier but I have to do something for my mother in Mindalby. The festival was a happy coincidence for me.’
‘This visit is about your mother?’
‘Not exactly.’
No, I want to continue last night’s interrupted kiss.
‘Is there something I can help you with?’ The polite tone was far removed from the husky voice of last night.
Whatever had got up Paul’s nose, his tone was a clear reminder she didn’t know him well. Maybe she’d never really know anyone well enough to trust again. She’d trusted Max and look where that had got her. She cleared her throat, and picked up the story she’d chosen to use. Asking without asking was a safer option. ‘After you left last night, I worked on some sketches—’
Paul’s glance flicked to her portfolio again.
‘Not for the festival.’
With trembling fingers Serena tugged on the purple ribbon and opened the portfolio, taking out two sketches and laying them side by side on the bench. ‘Our discussion about those men in the pub got me thinking of other ways to raise awareness about the human cost of the closure. I’m thinking a series of portraits in pencil or charcoal, maybe watercolours too, and a friendly gallery owner. What do you think?’
Paul strolled around the table and stood beside her, looking over her shoulder. Goosebumps ran down her arm when his breath brushed past her ear. Hints of pine, citrus and leather blended. If she leaned forward a fraction, she could press her lips to his skin. She gripped the edge of the stool and hooked her heels over the lowest rung, anchoring herself.
Focus. Watch his reaction.
The ticking of the clock on the wall impinged on her consciousness, each juddering step of the second hand magnified as the silence stretched on. Why wasn’t Paul responding? Even a negative comment would be better than this nothing response. She swallowed and met his midnight-dark gaze. He was studying her with an intensity that made her squirm on her stool.
‘Say something, please.’
‘This one.’
Catching a breath and holding it while her heartbeat thundered, she managed to utter a single, whispery syllable. ‘Who?’
Paul tilted his head from one side to the other and frowned.
‘Who do you think it is? I’m—keen to know if you recognise anyone from my work.’
Paul’s expression closed off and he moved away and clutched the edge of the sink in a white-knuckled grip. Slowly, he drew a deep breath, his gaze boring into Serena. ‘Where did you see him?’
Her stomach clenched as she tried to prepare herself. Who was the man Paul recognised in her sketch and was so reluctant to name?
Please don’t let it be the owner of the mill. That would be the worst possible outcome.
Touching her tongue to the corner of her mouth, she spread her hands on the table, grounding herself for the revelation to come. ‘Around. I forget where exactly. Well?’
A flicker of anger passed through his eyes.
‘This looks like the man who almost killed my father.’
Chapter Nine
Paul turned abruptly and coffee sloshed over his hand. He set the mug on the draining board, ripped off a couple of squares of paper towel and mopped up the spill. Pushing the used towel into the bin, he rinsed his hands and dried them, delaying the moment when he had to look at Serena.
Where did she come across Frankston?
His father’s heart condition was stable—now—but the conman had resurfaced a few days ago. Would seeing the man who had conned thousands of dollars from his father put him at risk again? Paul prayed he was wrong, but the face leering up from the page had a strong resemblance to the con man.
‘It looks very much like him. His name is Greg Frankst
on.’
Air whooshed out of Serena and she slumped like a rag doll. ‘Your father was almost killed by—this man, the one people were talking about outside the mill?’
Paul pulled out the second stool and sat, his back to the window. Light spilled past him, revealing Serena’s pale cheeks. His reaction had been pretty over-the-top and she couldn’t have known the subject of her sketch was the town villain. He swallowed his shock and took a deep breath, held it, and then exhaled slowly. People knew what Frankston had done; he couldn’t hurt anyone again, unless he made good on his threat to buy the mill.
‘That’s the one. Frankston was a local. His father had been a petty criminal, in and out of jail over the years. Some folks gave the son a hard time about his father, so when he came to my dad with a proposal to plant several hectares of a new breed of pine tree, Dad decided to give him a break. Frankston claimed the trees were fast growing, and would create excellent financial returns in a short time for savvy investors.’ Knowing the conman was back in town didn’t make Serena’s sketch less of a shock. Paul tried to order his thoughts. ‘Dad was looking to diversify. He thought the soil on the top quarter of our farm would suit growing pine trees and he set about encouraging a number of friends to invest. Most did; some, like Dad, borrowed heavily.’
Serena clenched her hands, her white knuckles standing out against the black of her trousers. ‘Was it a scam, or did the trees not live up to … Frankston’s claims?’
‘It was a scam from the start. I was in New Zealand at a conference when Dad signed the contract. Not only had he bought shares in the bogus company and got his friends to as well, he’d also bought seedling stock from a company recommended by Frankston.’
‘I think I can guess what happened. The stock failed to arrive and Frankston disappeared with all the investment money?’
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